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MidReal Story
Misunderstood Madness
Scenario:an autistic guy in his mid-thirties struggles in his everyday life because nobody understands his mental condition. his problems get worse every day until he gets crazy and commits a murder.
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It’s not about the label.
It’s about understanding.
That’s what Sarah tells me, anyway.
Sometimes I believe her.
Mostly, I don’t.
I’m nearly thirty-six years old and I’ve been living with autism for as long as I can remember.
I used to think it was normal—being the way I am—but the older I get, the more I realize it’s not.
I see the looks people give me when I don’t respond to them, and the way they shift around the so-called “freak” in their presence.
And that’s what I am, isn’t it?
A freak of nature.
Something God screwed up on and then discarded, leaving me to fend for myself in a world that doesn’t understand or accept me for who I am.
But what choice do I have?
This is the life I’ve been given and there’s no escape from it—no matter how badly I may want one.
The alarm on my phone goes off at six a.
m., as it does every weekday, and I roll over and turn it off before swinging my legs over the side of the bed.
My room is small—too small, according to my mother—but it’s all that I need.
It has a bed, a chair, a lamp, and a dresser, with a tiny closet that houses my clothes and shoes.
Everything is simple and organized, with a place for everything and everything in its place, just as it should be.
The bathroom is down the hall, but I don’t share it with anyone else, so it’s not a big deal.
I pull on the same blue sweater and black slacks that I wear every day before heading into the kitchen to make myself breakfast: oatmeal and a glass of orange juice, just like every other morning.
Then I grab my backpack, which is packed with the things I’ll need for the day ahead, and walk out the door of my apartment, locking it behind me before heading down the hall toward the stairwell.
My building doesn’t have an elevator, but that’s okay with me because I don’t like them anyway.
I take two steps at a time, counting as I go: one, two, three, four, five, six.
I do this every time I go down the stairs because it keeps me from getting dizzy and losing my balance.
It also helps with my anxiety, which can be overwhelming at times.
It’s not so bad today, but it’s always there, lurking just under the surface, waiting to raise its ugly head and wreak havoc on my carefully ordered life.
I take several deep breaths, trying to calm myself down before stepping out onto the street.
It’s loud and crowded—too loud and too crowded—but I’m used to it by now.
New York City is never quiet, no matter what time of day or night it may be.
There are always cars honking, people talking, and construction going on, along with all sorts of other noises that I can’t identify.
There are also smells: hot dogs and pretzels from the food carts that line the sidewalk; exhaust from the buses and taxis that clog the streets; and a dozen other things that I can’t quite put my finger on.
I take a deep breath and hold it for a moment before letting it out, trying in vain to block out all of the sensory input that threatens to overwhelm me.
It doesn’t work, of course, but I do it anyway, because I don’t know what else to do.
I know that I need to cross at this corner in order to get to the coffee shop, but I feel like I’m going to have a panic attack just thinking about it.
My heart is racing and there are beads of sweat forming on my forehead, even though it’s only fifty degrees outside.
I reach for my phone to check my messages, but then remember that I don’t have any, so I stuff my hands into my pockets instead, trying to make myself as small as possible.
It doesn’t work, either—not that anything ever does—which is why I’m standing here, doing everything I can not to hyperventilate and pass out in the middle of a crowded crosswalk.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, counting in my head just like Dr.
This is how I cope with things that are out of my control; I count, and I hum, and I recite facts about traffic lights, because those are things that I can understand—even when nothing else makes any sense at all.
It feels like an eternity before the light turns green, but I know it’s only been a few seconds because I’ve been watching it like a hawk ever since I got here.
It was red for thirty-seven seconds before it changed, and now it will stay green for fifty-three seconds more before flashing yellow and then red again just like it always does.
I know this because I’ve been studying traffic patterns for as long as I can remember—ever since I was a little boy—and they’re one of the few things in life that makes sense to me.
The walk signal goes up after an instant and I look both ways, even though I can see that there are no cars coming because they haven’t been given a green light yet and they’ll have to stop for me anyway.
But there are people, so many people, even though it’s only seven-thirty on a Monday morning.
They’re talking and laughing and shouting into their phones, paying me no mind at all, even though I’m standing here, waiting to cross the street.
I know that this doesn’t mean that they’re rude or mean—they’re just busy and preoccupied—but it doesn’t make me feel any better about the situation.
The walk signal changes to a flashing hand, indicating that I have only ten seconds left to cross the street, before flashing red and then going dark altogether, just like it always does.
I panic and step off the curb without thinking, even though it’s still the wrong time to cross, and get bumped by a guy who looks like he’s in a hurry.
I apologize automatically, even though it’s not my fault, and he glares at me something fierce, then continues on his way without another word.
I don’t like getting bumped into or touched by strangers, but it’s something that happens a lot when you live in New York City, especially when you have to walk through crowds of people like this one.
That’s one of the reasons why I try to avoid crowds whenever possible, even if it means taking a long route to get where I’m going or ending up on the wrong side of the street altogether.
The other reason is because crowds aren’t predictable, and when things aren’t predictable, they make me anxious—very anxious—and if there’s one thing in the world that I can’t stand, it’s being anxious and afraid all the time.
The walk signal changes back to a white figure walking briskly and then back to a flashing hand and then back to a red hand and then back to a white figure walking briskly—and finally, finally!—I make my way across the street and onto the sidewalk on the other side.
I breathe an audible sigh of relief when my feet finally touch solid ground again and continue on my way toward the coffee shop.
I still have six more blocks to go and five more traffic lights to cross before I get there, but it’ll be okay because this is my second-favorite part of the city—right after Times Square—and it’s only a matter of time until I arrive at my destination.
I keep my eyes trained straight ahead—never too high or too low or too far to the left or too far to the right—and use the traffic lights and signs as my guide so that I won’t accidentally veer off course or collide with someone else’s body.
There’s a coffee shop on my right and a bakery on my left and a hot dog vendor in front of me with his cart—and even though I can’t see them or smell them or hear them or taste them right now—I know that they’re there because they always are.
The traffic light changes before me from red to green and then green to yellow and then yellow to red—and I breathe another audible sigh of relief when it turns green again, just like it always does.
I cross the street and continue on until I reach the coffee shop—and that’s when things start to go wrong.
It smells like coffee and pastry and bread and eggs and bacon and it’s almost more than I can take—even though it’s only seven-forty-five in the morning and only a few people have come in since I left—and I clutch my hands into fists at my sides, then try to focus on my breathing as I wait for my panic attack to pass.
The lights flicker and shake before me—and I can see that they’re still working perfectly fine even though they look like they might not be—and I try to focus on them as I continue walking down the block.
